


Tiny Dances

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Sam, Awkward Sam Winchester, Belly Dancing, Cunnilingus, Dancing, Dancing Sam, Dirty Dancing, Dirty Dancing References, Disproportionate amount of smut, Djinni & Genies, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingerfucking, I'm on the phone, Music, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Sam barely keeping it together, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Sex Talk, Sexual Content, Sexy Times, Smut, Swing Dancing, Vaginal Fingering, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-26 14:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5008621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve recently started hunting with the boys and, while the hunts are going well, there is some suspicion around how you spend your spare time.  Sam, the ever curious, investigates and not without good reason...</p><p>Set between 3.04 Sin City and 3.05 Bedtime stories (July-Sept 2007)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annaintheimpala](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=annaintheimpala).



> This story has a [playlist on Youtube ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLanqPzVm_HLY-yY2XaHLXjnlkmEAnmHye) (so, ads. Ugh) for those who can read with music on - just chuck it on low in the background.  
> The songs are hyperlinked as they are referenced (and named at the end) - turn off autoplay.  
> [Here it is on Spotify too.](https://play.spotify.com/user/littlegreenplasticsolider/playlist/722Pj3kC8jmDqO675SpbfP)  
> Hope all that works ok, but I’m not actually brilliant enough to time it all with the story. One day someone will layer a soundtrack option on a fanfic hosting site (wouldn’t that be _awesome?!_ )
> 
> Cross-posted from my tumblr account.

** Prologue** \- ([start the music](https://youtu.be/tnOWikgTG2Q))

About a year ago you’d found yourself a hunt in a small town with an ageing population…

“Okay everyone, so this is going to start on the 7 and you’re going to rock back with your right-”

…where the only thing happening on a Friday night was ballroom dancing.

“Just like this.  And-a rock, step-”

But it had been weeks without a beat on your feet and the hunt had been furious and frustrating.   Driving an hour just for a beer and _maybe_ some unreliable 80s rock just seemed soul sucking…

“That’s great!  You got it! Okay, add this: you go, and-a rock step kick land-”

So you’d put on some low heels, stood in the doorway of the old hall and met Sue.

“…keep at it, and-a rock step, kick land! Pick up your left on the ‘land’.”

You’d said you were here to scratch a dancing itch, on your one night in town, and she’d said “Oh then you should dance with Sydney.  He’s lovely.”

“Let’s fill the bar.  Looks like this: And-a rock step, kick land.  Then the left goes: kick forward, hitch up, kick back, and land.”

He _was_ lovely.  Somewhere in his 60s, slim frame and a complete gentleman, with a firm lead. You were grinning through a fox trot within the hour.  You had laughed.  You’d felt proud.  You had fun.

“That’s it, let’s fill a few bars! And-a rock step, kick land, kick hitch, kick land.”

In the next town, they were doing Rock 'n’ Roll Round Robins, or something.  You thought _Well, what the hell!_ and that was it.  This – finding the wonderful range on offer across the States - became your elixir.

You were a _dancer_.  Maybe not a well trained one, but shit, what the hell were you fighting for if you couldn’t join in on this, one of humanity’s most unique and diverse gifts.   _Aren’t we human…?_ And the near cookie-cutter niceness of-

“Sorry!” 'James’ has bumped into your shoulder.  “Need some balance!”

“No problem,” you smile back, and smile further at 'Kanisha’ on his other side.  They probably are actually called James and Kanisha but your name’s not actually 'Sarah,’ so…

The three of you fall back in step with the class.  In no time you had this Lindy Charleston down well enough to join in on a tandem.  Swing dancing classes always seem to be short on leads, so you volunteer to be the 'guy’.  Juliette smiles sheepishly before turning her back to you, and you offer your hands beside her waist, palms up, right where she can reach them.  

“And-a rock-step…” the teacher leads you through it with his voice, replacing the instructions with a soft jaunty beat - “badap badah, da-ah, dup!—ba-dap badah” - and you give Juliette as sure a rhythm as you can.  

Your mind strays, as it always has since you started hunting with them, to imagining Dean and Sam beside you.  

Different dances attract and reveal different types, you’ve found.  You’re sure Sam would like the call-and-response nature of swing, how he could use the code to lead and make some fun and show off his follow.  

Dean, you’re not so sure about.  He’s cheeky and playful sometimes, but he still gives you a surly tone most days, and you’re not sure he’d be able to drop the pride long enough to learn dancing.  Also, you haven’t yet caught whether he has any rhythm below the knees. (The motels walls report his rhythm above the knees is _just fine_. Thanks ladies.)  

So, with the image of intensely concentrating Sam on one side, and flustered how-do-I-maintain-my-swagger Dean on the other, the scene in your head makes you smile.

“Change partners!”

In your mind, Sam would be your lead next.  He’d be good.

“Thanks!” Juliette says as she leaves, surprise clear in her voice, and you grin back.   _This_ , you think, _this is the stuff of life. Connection and music_ …

* * *

 

**Part 1**

“Do not disturb” says the little sign to your right.  Pity the courtesy isn’t returned. 

Inside your room you can hear the muffled shenanigans of Sam with whoever next door.  Sounds like they’re either on their way or gearing up for round two.  Who knows.  Don’t care.  Sleeping with ear buds again.  

You knock at their room the next morning, both brothers barely upright.

“Uh, you guys got breakfast yet?” you ask in the open doorway.

“No,” Sam says, patting his hair uselessly.  “I’ll um… I’ll go get-”

“S'ok, I got it,” you offer and decide to walk rather than drive to the diner, give them some time.  Give you some time to manage your thoughts about Sam in the morning.  You’d love it if he’d wear a freakin shirt to bed.  Maybe not.

When you return, Sam’s showered and dressed and mostly packed.  Dean has yet to give a shit.

You place the plastic bags and coffee tray on the table and sit, helping yourself.

“So what happened to you last night?” Dean asks, peeling himself out of bed.  He doesn’t care enough to put on more than a t-shirt and boxers.  Being handsome and an excellent hunter is about all he’s got going for him at the moment.  If it wasn’t for that, and the respect he gives you, he’d be unbearable.

“What do you mean?” you ask, biting a danish.  “I went out, like you guys did.”

“Where?”

The last time Dean asked you about this Sam told him to mind his own, but he’s being invisible today.

“Out,” you chew and shrug, “to a bar, whatever.  Played some pool.”

“To the other bar in this two-bar town?” he asks, flatly.

“Yes,” you reply, giving nothing away.  

“Did you get lucky?” he asks, more lewdly curious than happy for you.

“I had a good time,” you answer and dimple your cheeks to show you’re unaffected by him.

* * *

The next week, you’re a day and a half’s drive from the bunker and checking out a djinn.  You don’t know about Dean’s djinn experience some months ago, but Sam is watching for flags every step of the way.

You keep your head down and your bloodied silver high as you skulk around the dark industrial estate.  Dean gestures instructions to you and Sam as you make your way into the most likely building.  All three of you spy the taught chains in the next room, the bodies hanging in shadow beneath them.  Glancing around, you know you’re relying on sound and movement to give the monster away, you just hope it’s not a movement that takes one of you out.

As Dean, ahead of you, steps forward and round a frame, you hear something like breath and fabric back where Sam is and when you turn, he’s missing.  You click your tongue.  Dean glances at you and sees your quick nod before you’ve followed the noise, and then you’re chasing the sound of something dragging.  You run, faster than is safe in the crowded space, and see what you’re sure are shoes disappearing round a corner.  You wave behind you, hoping Dean’s quiet footsteps are closer than they seem and send him to your right to watch your back as you try to pounce on Sam’s captor.  

The djinn is there, having stepped back from Sam’s peaceful body.  Seems he meant to ambush whoever appeared next, but you and Dean are too far apart and away and the idea fails.  Quickly, you’re both creeping and watching, the djinn’s eyes snapping back and forth between you. Both of you have the weapons you need to kill it but you see it decide on Dean – apparently the greater threat – and it lunges.  

Dean snatches a nearby chair and holds it up to avoid the djinn’s touch. You dash at its side but it swings its arm, the blue glow of its palm threatening you with oblivion, and you retreat a little.  It turns back to Dean, its hand still aimed at you, stalking in his direction.  You spy a long star-shaped pole a yard or so away, rusted but good enough.

In one hand it’s almost too heavy but you manage to make it work and you swing, smacking the djinn across the skull and knocking it backwards. You drop your knife and use two hands to slam the pole down on its head again, then step closer to stab it down, end first, right above the temple.  It’s gruesome and messy, but very effective.

“Shit, Y/N,” Dean says.  “Nice.  Ew… but nice.”

“Thanks. Whatever works, right?”

Dean stabs the body with his blade, just to be sure, and you’ve already turned to see Sam coming to on the dusty concrete.  You walk over but Dean dashes past, pulling Sam up by his jacket saying “Hey Sammy, how you doin? You okay buddy?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he groans, pressing his palms to his temple.

You crouch beside them both and wait for his head to clear.

“You were only out for a few minutes,” Dean reports, “barely got your story started, eh?”

Sam looks up at Dean and swallows.  “Nah, I was just out is all. Nothin’… nothing to see.  Sorry.”

“No apologies, little brother,” Dean assures, smacking him on the shoulder.  “Y/N beat its skull like a watermelon, so all is good.”

“Really?” he looks at you.

“Yep, went bat-shit crazy,” you nod solemnly.  “It had Dean cornered like a circus ringmaster-”

“Hey!”

“What? You were using a chair,” you say. “ _I_ wanted a chair.  I _hate_ the idea of them touching me.”

He huffs a laugh at you, saying “Good thing then,” and grabs Dean’s hand to get standing.

There are only two victims left alive, both women, and one of them clings to you for dear life.  Dean seems to understand she doesn’t want to be touched by a guy and lets it go, but Sam looks like his heart is squeezed every time you meet someone broken like that.  

Later, as you lean on the Impala hidden in the shadows, you all crack a beer and watch the authorities deal.  You can see Sam watching the trauma the woman carries.

“You know, if you knew her,” you say to him, out of Dean’s earshot, “you’d be good for her… she’ll have someone else.”

Sam glances over at you, twitching a frown in confusion.

“You just seem to want those types relieved of their grief,” you explain.  “And I’m just saying that if they had you, they’d be much relieved.”  You smile softly, not meaning any double entendre. “You just have to trust they’ve got someone.”

“Thanks,” he looks down at his beer.  “But yeah, I hate it when we get people who’re having shit piled on their shit.”

You finish your beers.  In the darkness you can’t see how Sam is looking to his right a little, watching you in his periphery.  He’s thinking of when you’re kind to him, realising that you’re probably never kind like that to Dean because of how he is with you.

“So, bar?” Dean asks.

“Yep,” Sam sighs.  “Hey, Y/N, why don’t you come with us this time?”

“Uuuuh,” you forgot to prepare an excuse and decide it’s just too hard this time.  “Sure.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You ditch Sam at the bar. He follows you and discovers your secret.

It has been a while since you’d seen this. You’re not even sure if you’d noticed it when you had but, fuck, Dean is fast. You’re not surprised, really, he’s that hot, but he’s not your type. Certainly not when you’re sharing a car and what not for the next however long.

Hunting with these guys has been excellent. You’ve learned heaps already and felt some pride working with a team. _With a team_ , you almost laugh to yourself. _Not **in** a team._ Sam and Dean have their secret language, which is fair enough, but it does mean you’ll never really belong. You can only hope to forge something unique with each of them and your plan has been to start with respect and good hunting. It seems to be working to a degree. Sam is a little more forgiving about you being an outsider.

“Hey gorgeous,” you hear beside you, a sign that you’ve waited too long for the bartender. “You here alone tonight?”

You turn and look at the guy, someone not much older than you and not bad looking. Sam watches from the booth to your left. He flicks his eyebrows in an offer to save you.

“Sort of,” you reply, “but I’m not looking for anything. Sorry.” You smile and finally get the bartender’s attention. You order shots for you and Sam, plus a beer for him.

“You sure?” the guy tries again. “I might be nice company.”

“Yeah I’m sure you are,” you say off handedly, paying for the drinks and holding them between you like a barrier, “but I’m not even looking for that.”

You’re back at the booth before he can even raise a finger.

“You okay,” Sam checks.

“Yep, peachy,” you smile. You sit and down your shot, Sam’s eyes watching the glass go up and down, his expression surprised.

It’s your second drink of the night; the first was had over awkward chat with Sam. His manner with you is all over the shop – darting eyes when he asks questions, concern when you answer, earnest smiles and moments of introspection when you make him laugh. The whole show is confusing. Sometimes he was like a puppy who’s last owner had been mean and then other times you thought he might be bored with you.

There are a lot of things that make you persist, not least of all wanting to get along with the guys you work with, but mostly because, well, he’s Sam. Sam is lovely. Somehow you think it would be a mark on your character if someone like Sam couldn’t stand you. The problem was you find him too attractive to take any risks – his whole package is almost intimidating. These few months have seen the safest, most conservative version of you ever shown.

Sam has downed his shot and is now running his fingers up and down his beer glass. He realises he’s watching you without looking, again, but when he snaps out of it all you perceive is boredom.

“Um, I don’t think I’m gonna stay,” you say. You sigh a bit and tap your fingers on the table, waiting for him to answer.

“Uh, okay,” he shifts in his seat and searches for words. “You can if you want. I mean, we can just hang out if you like.”

“Nah, Dean’s already in the parking lot and you’ve got a throng of _lllladies_ ogling you already. I’m not really up for it,” you shrug. “It’s cool.”

“Y/N,” he raises a hand in assurance, “I don’t have to-”

“Sam,” you insist, smiling at him, “It’s your R&R, so, you know… do your thing. I don’t mind.” You get up and shrug your jacket on. “Honestly, it’s all good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You pull out your phone as you head for the door, the website of a local dance school already open on your browser and thumb through to what’s on for casual classes tonight.

Sam turns in his seat to watch you leave, long legs sticking out from the booth. He waits all of 6 seconds before grabbing his jacket and following you.

* * *

 

[The drumming is intoxicating:](https://youtu.be/8T-aTqQPMhU) Rich, intricate, exotic. Like a good student, you wait for instruction, pushing aside every other style you know that could respond to the rhythm.

You stand in the middle of the back row and smile at the dancer’s clock: The only numbers on its face are 5, 6, 7, 8. On the opposite wall, next to the massive windows, is a poster saying “Friends don’t let friends clap on 1 and 3.” Behind you is a portable barre moved aside for the class and you’re fighting the instinct to slide your heel along its height for a delicious hamstring stretch.

You’re quietly chuffed at yourself for remembering to chuck your workout gear in your car. The black yoga pants and singlet top blend in well. And the teacher, Trishna, has loaned you a coin belt for the class. You’re surrounded by women aged 17-ish to 30-something of all shapes and sizes, and you decide to go all the way and fold your singlet up over your bust to reveal your belly, just like everyone else.

Outside, across the road and out of the fall of the street light, Sam stands next to your car and gapes at the window, unaware of how long its been since he arrived. He sees you, your knees soft and tummy drawn tight, pretending you’ve got string tied to the compass-points of your pelvis, pulling it to tilt your hips left-right, front-back. He stands there, watching, deciding you must’ve done belly dancing before, and not at all sure what to do with this information.

Sam registers the teacher’s voice as she stands by the window, turning up the music and speaking over the elaborate tune “So, you have to imagine that your pelvis is a bowl and there’s a big orange in it. You want to move the bowl, not the orange-” then her voice is drowned out as she turns away and motions with cupped hands to demonstrate.

You move with the group, shimmying in time and beginning to move your feet. The woman next to you, the one closer to Sam, says something and you agree with her, laughing and mimicking each other’s intense jiggling. Both of you grab the backs of your thighs and bend over in giggles. He’s never seen you laugh like that. He’s never even seen you smile like that, not in real life.

You’re having _fun_.

He shuts his mouth, the taste of guilt fresh and bitter. He wants to leave. Turning and striding back to the motel, he grinds his jaw and stares at the ground rolling under him, looking at nothing. You’re having fun. Real fun. In spite of everything. And instead he’s fucking around, picking up girls and burning himself with alcohol.

He’s furious with himself, envious of you, and disgusted with your lives. All of them. You shouldn’t have to be a hunter. He and Dean shouldn’t need to fuck and forget. He should never have let that be how he dealt with wanting you…

So much _should_.

He fumes, ranting internally and jutting his jaw at the injustice of it all, taking it all out in the strike of his heel on pavement.

After a while he notices the neon of the motel sign and realises he’s not so much furious as rueful. He’s passed being angry at his dad for not teaching them how to cope, and he never actually had any shame about all the sex, but it doesn’t take the sting out of a life less lived. A life otherwise lived.

By the time he’s got his key in the lock he’s just plain sore. Why wouldn’t you tell him about dancing? It’s so harmless. Of all the sides of him he’d revealed and withheld, he’d thought at least he’d been the friendlier, more trustworthy of him and Dean. Obviously not trustworthy enough.

In the end, he blames himself. He knows that, since you’d arrived, he’d been with more women than usual. And he knows why. And the message you’d likely gotten was that you weren’t _with_ them, just _around_ them, and you probably have no clue that either of them care whether you stay or go.

* * *

 

Your row has moved to the front of the class, giving clear view of yourself in the mirror. You’ve learned a ‘maya’, and practise drawing an infinity symbol with your hips, sliding each hip up and to the side in turn. It feels lovely and inviting.

This time Dean doesn’t even enter your thoughts. In your mind there’s just Sam, leaning back against the mirror, undistracted by the women around you, watching your belly button wink as you slowly shimmy. You frame your hips and make your softness tremble, enjoying the feel of your waist being tight and exposed and your backside and tummy trembling. You wonder if Sam’s would-be face is one you’ve seen already; you’re starting to lose track of the ones he’s actually shown you versus the ones you’ve imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Music: “Combo” by Esam Moustafa)


	3. Chapter 3

The next weekend, when you all had a quiet night to yourselves, Sam forces everyone to play a game of jenga, mainly because he found it in the motel’s cupboard.

“Can we _please_ make it a drinking game?” Dean pleads.

“Okay,” Sam relents, “if we have to.”

“So a shot for every time it falls,” you say, starting to stack the blocks.

“No! A shot for every time it doesn’t!” Dean corrects, and taps his temple: “Handicap.”

“Ah, yes,” you nod, “so wise.”

It’s a tight game and takes ages, all of you quite dexterous and balanced even with the grog in your systems. In the end it’s Dean who first topples the blocks and he punches the air in a mini-tantrum.

“Oh my god!” Sam slowly raises his arms in triumph.

“You didn’t _win!”_ Dean insists.

“No, but _you lost!_ This day is grand.”

You lean back and watch them have at it. “So what’s the loser get then?” you ask.

“Truth or Dare!” declares Sam.

“No! Let’s make it strip jenga! Huh?” he points at you, obviously the one to give permission for that. His eyebrows get higher as Sam’s come down.

“No, Dean,” he says, smacking his hand out of the air, “That’s stupid. C'mon, truth or dare.”

 _Thank crap for that,_ you think.

“Ugh, okay, truth- NO! Dare!” he grins. You don’t know what he expects is coming, but he seems confident, so you look at Sam and wait.

Sam puts his hands on his hips and settles on his feet, looking into the distance as he thinks. You can’t help but let your eyes run over his chest and shoulders, but you manage to keep it in his northern hemisphere.

“You know that yoghurt you brought from the last place?” Sam asks calmly.

“What?! What yoghurt?” Dean gripes. “When the fuck would I buy yoghurt?”

“You had a sick gut,” Sam explains, “I told you to get yoghurt and you got some sweetened, creamy crap that wouldn’t help.”

“What about it?” Dean asks flatly, full of suspicion.

“Well, I reckon by now it’s real yoghurt,” Sam says. “Dare you to eat it.”

“Is that even safe?” you wonder.

Sam shrugs, “I’ll let you take the mould off the top.”

“That doesn’t sound safe,” you say, slowly shaking your head.

“I’m doin’ it,” Dean states, drunk yet determined, and he’s off for the fridge.

“Dean-” you warn, “Dean!” You scramble around the table to catch up.

He’s already shoulder deep in the lowest shelf and fishes out the tub. The three of you lean over it as he pops the lid, moaning at the blue-green fuzz inside.

“Still smells like yoghurt,” he says.

“Don’t sniff that!” you cry, forcing the lid back on by flipping his wrist. You wrangle the whole thing away from him. “It’s probably penicillin, but _still,_ you know, it isn’t harmless!”

“Aw she cares,” he smiles at Sam.

“Of course I care,” you scold. “This is not the kind of dumbness I’m willing to see you die of.”

“It’s love.”

“Shaddup,” you snap, quietly happy to be joking with Dean at all. You put the lid back on the pot and dump the whole thing in the bin, saying “Okay… I think I’m gonna turn in.”

“Really?” Sam says, moving toward you a bit. “We could play some cards or something. Or-”

“No, that’s okay,” you cut him off, “I had a really good time tonight though.” You smile as you head off to your room with a small wave good-bye. “Thanks… ‘night.”

They both stare at the door as your footsteps fade away. Sam deflates.

“Oh dude,” Dean groans. “Seriously?”

Sam turns to him and means to say What?, but gives it up straight off. “Yyyyyeah.” He licks his lips and leans on the bench, still pining at the doorway, frowning over what to do.

“God dammit, I knew this was coming,” Dean gripes. He collects a glass and fills it with water.

Sam winces at his comment. “It wasn’t _that_ obvious,” he sooks.

“It’s been fuckin’ painful,” Dean corrects, refilling the cup and handing it over. “Look, I think she’d be really good for you Sam but I don’t know how much we can trust her, and we need people we can trust.”

Sam’s thankful for Dean’s compassionate tone. He’d been expecting a preaching, but instead Dean’s okay with it – resigned at worst.

“Sam, I don’t even know how much longer she can stay with us. I mean,” Dean comes near, speaking sternly, “where does she go all those nights? We’re out letting off steam, and what’s she doing?-”

“Dancing,” Sam confesses.

“Dancing?” Dean is all confusion. “Like, at bars?”

“I followed her last week – that night we were going to drink together and you disappeared with Cherise? - anyway, she cut out and I followed her to a dance school. She was belly dancing.”

He watches Dean’s face as it morphs through his thoughts: _Belly dancing? Oh, right, belly dancing… nice…_ Then he’s looking into the middle distance like he can imagine you actually belly dancing-

“Hey,” Sam smacks him, “knock it off.”

Dean sways and frowns sourly.

“Why wouldn’t she tell us about that?”

“That I cannot answer Sammy boy,” Dean answers, and puts his glass in the sink. “But it’s not like we don’t have secrets of our own. Question is, how many more secrets has she got? Anyway, beddy-byes for me,” he says and knocks Sam on the shoulder as he walks past. “Hey, can she dance?”

Sam sucks in a desperate breath, exhaling “Yeah, yes, she really can.”

“Damn,” Dean says, heading for his bag. “Good luck with that memory.”

* * *

 

Two days later you’re near a large college town, rounding in on a small nest of vampires. There should be only four, but as soon as you reach the run down house you’re more cautious than usual.

“This place is freaking big for just four,” you say quietly, thankful for the down-wind.

“Maybe they’re planning to recruit,” Dean suggests.

“Yulchh,” you reply. “Any preferences for process?”

“Go in the back and sweep through,” Dean explains. “It’s just one story.”

“Alright,” Sam says, apparently impatient. “You in front, Y/N between us.”

“Sounds good,” you say.

For the next 10 minutes you follow Dean’s lead. A teeny part of you wishes he’d let you take charge for once, but it’s just not in his nature and, all things considered, it’s not worth the fight when this is how he works best. He rarely lets Sam even go first for crap’s sake; you’re lucky to not be Skyping it in.

Before you get through the first room, two of the vamps have discovered you and attack, screaming and flailing. Dean swings and beheads the first, a clean and lucky shot, and the second vamp recoils a little, recalculating the threat.

When it pounces, it swings sideways, taking Dean down and away from you both. You jump around their bodies and yank on its legs. It drags Dean with it, but is too distracted to kick at you. You grab a handful of hair a pull its head back as far as you can, bending its spine and lifting it away from Dean. He’s swiped and separated body from head so fast you haven’t time to catch yourself, falling on your ass into a doorway. Hands grab you around the chin, and you’re being dragged down the corridor. You hear Sam yell your name and Dean swear as he crawls out from under nine 10ths of a corpse. You swing your machete over your head, releasing the grip somewhat, but as the vampire stumbles from your strike you’re kicked in the head.

The last thing you recall is the feel of wind going by and yelling Winchesters.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a thumb stroking your temple. Something hard on your head. You smell dust. It irritates. Something in your hair moves. It’s warm and hard. Something else is cold.

You frown and move your limbs to orientate yourself.

“Hey, hey-hey Y/N, just rest.” It’s Sam. You open your eyes and see him over you, his short shaggy hair fallen forward, both arms reaching down for your head. It’s just jacket and face and hair.

You move your eyes a bit, trying to look around- “No, rest,” he says firmly. “You were out, for like half a minute. You’ve got time to rest.”

You take a deep breath and look up at him. You’re quite awake now but if you can steal a few more seconds of “dazed and confused” it’s a good time to record some scenery.

He’s concerned and pensive, but as you blink and watch him he gives you a slight smile. The cold patch, on the left, is hard, and you feel it scrape against your scalp.

“Sorry,” he says, shifting his legs. You realise he’s actually squatting over you, his butt resting on one hinged heel. He kneels his other leg on the ground, by your ribs, and shifts his weight. “The only thing in the freezer was a cold brick.”

You blink and reach up for it, feeling the plastic box. “I’m not sure it’s helping,” you say.

“You wanna trying sitting?” he asks, removing the cold pack. He shifts his other hand to behind your neck and you hold onto that wrist as he levers you forward. You keep your eyes closed, partly to avoid swooning over what romance might be in the gesture but also to manage the pain. Still, he’s unwilling to let you go till he knows you can support yourself. You put your hands behind you and lean, and he sits on his foot.

Dean appears in the corridor, saying “How’s your head?”

“Yeah, better than I thought, I think,” you reply. You tilt a little, testing your equilibrium. Besides the bruise, it feels okay.

Back at the motel, Sam insists that he’s allowed to check on you and your head during the night. As far as you can tell, he’s polite about it and you sleep through the whole evening, right through to lunch.

In truth, however, his time and contact snowballs on each visit. The first time he doesn’t even go in, just looks at you through the adjoining door and you change position. The second time you’re quiet, so he creeps in to take a closer look, pulling up the blanket to cover your shoulder once he’s satisfied. The third, around dawn, he chances moving your hair – ready to say he’s inspecting your bruise – but he does it with his middle finger, at least three times, and arranges the locks off your face and neck, tucking you in once more. Part of him wishes you would wake up.

The last time, he accidentally wakes you and tries not to stare as you yawn and angle your stretching body.

“Morning. You feel okay?” he smiles.

“Yeah,” you blink back happily. “God, how late is it?”

“Late, but it’s fine. We’ll move on tomorrow we think.”

“No problem,” you say and smack your mouth for another stretch. He closes the door behind him.

“Finally awake?” Dean surmises.

“Yeah,” Sam says, deep in thought as he sits.

“Hey,” Dean sits on the end of he bed, opposite Sam on his kitchen chair, apparently about to say something important. “I know we got a lot going on right now, with the deal and all, but you seem distracted recently. You okay with Y/N?”

“What do you mean?” Sam says, knowing he’s been avoiding something.

“What’s going on?” Dean presses. “It’s not just the crush. Do you think she’s hiding something else?”

Sam sighs. “No, it’s not that. When…” he wants to say, but he doesn’t want to make something out of nothing… “I lied… When the djinn hit me, the other week, I had a dream.”

Dean pauses at the weight of it. “D'you dream about Y/N?”

Sam nods solemnly. “We were living together, at college. Not the same as Stanford, but somewhere like that. You’d just dropped by on the way to another hunt.”

“Right,” Dean nods back, understanding his hesitation.

“We were happy,” he sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Really happy. It’s a hard image to shake.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Dean agrees, thinking back to the bewitching sweetness of his own time in a djinn heaven. “It’s not nothin’ Sam.”

Sam looks up at him, hopeful, maybe scared.

“I mean, mine was off, but I was me. I wanted the things I do now. If you were happy, like Stanford made you happy, then… she makes you happy.”

Sam leans back and rests his arm on the table, picking at the rim with his thumbnail.

“I think she makes you happy already. You should do something,” Dean says. “Soon.”

“Dean, I don’t-”

Dean stands, pointing at his brother as he heads for the bathroom. “Don’t make me say it, Sammy.”

“Say what?”

“Life’s too short.”

* * *

 

The best thing about college towns is the range of venues. Yes, you can definitely find a fun casual class here too, and often it’s where you can find the more obscure styles, but tonight you just want to dance.

Standing in line, you rub your bare arms and shuffle your feet. Even in August the night is cool, but you’re pretty much over using cloak rooms so tonight it’s just jeans, boots, black singlet and necklace.

Dean’s off at a bar, likely mere hours away from blowing some college girl’s limited experience out of the water, and Sam is back at the motel for some martyr-ish reason. You’re practically bouncy with energy after such a good night’s rest.

The venue is hot, dark, writhing, and the flashing lines and patches of coloured light don’t even reveal the whole room. The music is recent and thumping, loud enough for your kidneys to dance all by themselves.

If you weren’t so thirsty you’d have skipped the bar and headed straight for the floor, but you wait in the throng and order a short energy drink with vodka, and a water chaser. You drink fast, leave the empties on the bar and work your way back out. Ignoring the odd hand on your waist as you squeeze between the bodies, you smile politely at the leaning guys and keep going for the dance floor.

In the thick of it, where the girls are bouncing and working their prize moves, you can surround yourself with show-offs and flirts in the hopes they’ll catch any gropers before you’ve managed to work off some of your itch.

The three songs down and you’re buzzed, smiling to yourself, running your hands over your thighs and waist and you throb your body to the music. Then, like in a movie, you spot a silhouette to your left, just as the fast, surging bass of [Goldfrapp’s _Oh La La_](https://youtu.be/uco-2V4ytYQ) starts up.

You know that silhouette better than it’s face. You’ve followed and guarded that form in shadows and darkness for weeks now. You even know which way it’s facing, whether it’s ready to move or lean and right now it’s doing neither. He’s head and shoulders above the crowd, sipping a drink and facing the dance floor. You know: Sam is here, and he’s watching you.

So… he’s okay with watching you dance then?

Closing your eyes, you begin to move with purpose. You slide your knees against themselves, your palms alternating back and forth along your thighs, let your hips sway side to side with the beat, and turn towards him with the movement, hoping he’ll get a view of your twisting shape. Your arms fold up, fingertips resting on your head, and you turn your face left-right-left in sync with your knees, your elbows against it, letting your arms frame your face as you feel that sexy thrum move you.

You decide, if he asks, you can just say you didn’t know he was there. That’s your last thought, right before you pull out a move straight from a burlesque class last year.

You scoot your feet wide, legs straight, and press your wrists to your forehead and thigh as you thump your heels with the beat and slowly hinge forward off your hips. You swing your hips in a wide, slow semicircle, keeping the thump going, then whip your hips through the motion a few times, bending your knees to kick the movement into the corners and feel the speed of the rhythm. That’s as far as you get though coz some bright spark wraps his hands around your pelvis and you have all of half a bar to figure out if you’re going to work with or against this guy.

He grinds his groin into your ass with no hint of subtlety, which just frustrates you really. Collapsing your move, you turn and take his hands, smiling broadly and shaking your head when you say “No, thanks.” He pouts pleadingly, playfully, and moves your wrists back and forth to encourage you to dance, mimicking the move in his own way. Again you change your hold and straighten, stopping all your moves and just bouncing the beat a little.

“Why are you dancing like that if you don’t want a partner,” he yells in your ear.

“You’re not the partner I want!” you yell back.

“Can I sub for a while?” he tries.

“Dude, no,” you say nicely. “Cockblocking is not subbing.”

He smiles and rolls his eyes. Mouthing _yeah, yeah_ , then kisses you on the cheek before he waves and walks away.

When you look back to the shadows, Sam’s gone. Glancing around, you spot his height over near the bar. Muscling through again, a little less polite than before, you jump him from the side.

“What are you doing here?” you yell.

“Oh! Hey!” he says with his ‘surprised’ face. “I just- I changed my mind.” He leans down to talk in your ear, his tone mechanical from the volume. “Is this what you’ve been doing all these nights?”

“Pretty much,” you shrug.

He looks down at you, the surprise a little more genuine, then turns and pulls you to the end of the room that’s quietest, where you only have to painfully project rather than screech. The music morphs into [Rihanna’s _SOS_](https://youtu.be/IXmF4GbA86E) and you notice how Sam winces at having to talk here and now.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” he leans over to say by your ear.

You bounce up on your toes to talk, matching his effort to communicate over the noise. “I dunno, I just thought we did this part alone.” You’re fighting to not move with the music – somehow you think it would seem rude.

He blinks at you, saying “What do you mean?”

“Well,” you begin, looking at the collar of his shirt as he leans down for you. He fills it so nicely, pulls just a little across his broadness. “Dean picks up and fucks in cars, you take women home, and I go dancing. I just thought we all did our own thing, so…” You stand straight and shrug.

Sam’s face is concerned, worried, and you can see he’s thinking of how to say something. “Y/N, I don’t…” he leans in close, his consonants bouncing off your neck, “I don’t usually take that many women home. Not usually.”

“Okay,” you say happily and he looks at you again, reading your lips a little as you mouth “I don’t care.”

Your smile - your friendliest, most incidental smile - is a lie. You do care, you just don’t think about it.

You wait for him as he stands there, a statue amongst pulsing dancers and people to-ing and fro-ing between bathrooms and bars. He works his jaw and rests his hands on his hips, then leans down sharply.

“Y/N, I stuffed it up,” he says.

You pinch his shirt’s button panel to keep his face by yours. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, his smiling cheek brushing your jaw momentarily. “I’m okay, I just regret…” His hands start gesturing either side of your elbows, as he explains. “Since you started with us, I’ve been with more women and I should’ve been with less.”

You take a deep breath. It feels like he wants to have a deep-and-meaningful, like he has a girl in his life who’ll talk about feelings and shit and now he feels like it, but here is just not the place. There’s no balcony or smokers alley to escape to, just this crazy loud room and no privacy.

“You wanna dance with me?” you look at him encouragingly.

“Y/N,” he smiles, looking at the ground. “I-

“C'mon, dance with me, Sam!” you plead playfully, tugging lightly on his shirt button.

He looks at you, and leans in just a little, his few seconds of tight eye contact riveting you. “I don’t wanna dance with you the way you wanna dance with me.”

You stop and twitch your eyebrows at him curiously, then try to figure out what he means. _I’m only offering a friendly dance… so…_

“Y/N,” he leans in again, close enough that his lips brush against your ear, his fingertips light on the backs of your arms. His volume drops and he uses more bass to carry his message. “I should’ve been with a _lot_ less women… like no women.” He pauses there and breathes a bit. “Really… just one… woman.”

He’s had enough of leaning over and stands tall, watching you for a few seconds and swallowing again. Then he glances around, revealing how nervous he is about the confession.

 _Does he mean me?_ Logic says yes, but your brain is a little messy with the idea.

The music changes again – [Timberlake’s _Senorita_](https://youtu.be/nJHYDkvRB2Y) – which you take as a sign, so you encourage your offer instead. You smile and put your hands high on his bare forearms, fingertips almost under the rolled cuffs, then slide them down to his wrists, making him look at you hopefully. Your grin grows across your lips and you look over his shoulder, almost shaking your head at the luck. He starts to smile back, hesitantly hopeful, mouthing _What?_

You start to walk backwards and pull on him. “Dance with me,” you call happily.

Then he cracks that sideways smile, all white teeth and dimples and lets you lead him a few steps before he stops you. His palms find your forearms and his thumbs smooth over your skin. Really? He mouths, to this? He points upwards, nowhere, meaning the song.

 _Yes,_ you mime, your expression all _Yes **this** song Sam._

His face slips from apprehensive, to cute and surrendered, but as you back away you’re pretty sure that’s… hunger.

You turn to lead him, fingers hooked in yours, into the crowd, your walk rhythmic and tight with the beat. Everyone around you has dropped into the Latin rhythm, hands sliding and asses everywhere but when you turn back your focus is on him and his attention for you.

He shakes his head slowly, showing you he doesn’t know what to do by trying to start some sentence. You shake your head in reply and put his hands on your waist. You hold him firmly, by the back of his ribs, and keep him against your body, gradually showing how you move back and forth. It’s only inches, and soon he’s moving his feet enough to move with you, shuffling a simplified Salsa step.

You let him dance with you for a while, smiling up at him, laughing when smiling back is all it takes for him to lose his place. He quickly slips back in time and you move away, doing a slow spin inside his hands and coming back to face him. You slide your hands up to the backs of his shoulders and his slip up your back, his smile now inextinguishable as he looks down on you.

It’s wonderful, to be so close to him and all his elements while you move against each other in increments and bumps. His fingers on you are attentive, listening, and you feel puffs of his breath as he laughs lightly and your bodies move. Even the shift of his muscles under his shirt – something you’ve felt before during hunts – it’s there for you to feel now, luxurious, relaxed, open. Mostly though it’s the look and the smell. Usually, at this distance, things are desperate and rushed, your nose full of sweaty, human-salt smells laced with the metallic tang of adrenaline. Now, you’ve an uninterrupted view of him happy to be close to you, and his warm musk and aftershave is like a rare calm treat.

You turn in his hold, his fingers spanning from ribs to hip, and keep dancing, flicking your hips through the move. Your thighs bump occasionally, but he holds you close and tries to shape himself up your back, echoing your form.

“You looked so hot before,” Sam says in your ear, “before that guy cut in.”

_Oh really?_

You drop-drop one side of your hip in time, then the other, then begin a soft shimmy on top of the steps. He slips his hands down to the bones and it distracts him enough to give up on his own dancing, just watching you instead. You roll your pelvis in his hold, his appreciation shown through squeezing fingers and he presses his happy lips to your ear murmuring “Move the bowl, not the orange.”

You smile at the memory, the feel of him, and… then… _what?_

Looking at him over your shoulder is what turns you. The song has changed again but you’re trying to recall… _Why would he know to say that?_


	5. Chapter 5

Quickly, Sam incriminates himself, his face popping open in surprised guilt, hands rising in surrender.

“Y/N, I-”

You can’t even hear him over the music but you can see what he’s saying. You’re stunned, unable to yet believe it. “How long have you been _following me?!”_

“I’m sorry!”

_“Sam!-”_

“We want to trust you!” he yells desperately into your face, his hands open as he leans over with earnestness. “We didn’t know why you were so secretive.”

You’re exasperated, angry and sad all at once. “Sam! You should’ve asked me!” you cry.

“I know, I’m sorry!” he tries again. “We’re not use to… being able to just ask.”

You’re so shitty you slap him in the shoulder, hard enough for him to almost defend himself. “You asshole!”

He doesn’t catch the insult, what with the slapping and all, and you look at him like he should’ve known better. After a few seconds, you hang your head, and let the broiling crowd shove you about.

You’re with a guy who doesn’t trust you, who’s willing to lie to you, and what the hell good is that?

You should leave. So you do, shoulder first. Sam follows you closely and keeps pace outside as you stalk to your car. He doesn’t pipe up till you dig for your keys.

“Hey,” he collects your wrist lightly, “Hey, Y/N.”

You turn, face blank, and give him a chance. “Yeah Sam.”

“You specifically avoided telling us,” he explains. “Dean asked you and, initially, yeah I wanted to protect your privacy, but with what we do… Y/N, it’s such a small thing to keep from us. Why did you risk that?”

“Because Dean is an ass and in the beginning I couldn’t be bothered with his shit,” you snap back. “I wanted to _keep_ it private.”

“There’s a difference between private and secret,” he says carefully. “You could’ve told us. We would’ve left you alone about it.”

“It’s not just that Sam…” Suddenly the full picture zooms in on you and you can’t get your hands around all the parts. “Look, I can deal with the hierarchy shit, I can deal with Dean being an ass and being tight, I get that there’s a reason, but seriously it’s _hard._ It’s hard to work with you guys and trust that the stuff I don’t know– I’m mean, who’s Azazel? Who is _Ruby?!”_

Sam loses his resolve now, glaring at the horizon in anxiety. Putting his hands on his hips, he starts shifts his weight from foot to foot. He looks like he’s losing a deal.

“I don’t pry into that shit, Sam, because _secrets are private_. You guys know _everything else_ about me. I thought you’d extend me the same courtesy, even if it is about some benign shit like dancing.”

He’s moved away a bit now and, with your back to the car, you’re not sure what’s going through his mind. He keeps looking at you, running his hands over his head, and you’re beginning to think a decision is coming. You don’t want him to send you away – when the hell does a guy this sweet come up in a hunter girl’s life? Part of you is realising, right now, that this is why you have tolerated all the hurdles and mystery: you want to be with Sam. But do you want it like this?

“Look, I’m not giving you an ultimatum Sam,” you explain. “You don’t have to, like, tell me everything or I’ll go. I understand your lives are heavy and it’s fine that you two are tight. You’re brothers, it’s fine. I can work beside you, whatever. But please, please don’t go behind my back. Okay?”

“Y/N,” Sam near deflates, “if you’ve got something that you can share, you’ve gotta share it.” He’s pleading with you, for some reason. “We can’t afford any suspicion, nothing-”

“Okay!” you agree, bitter over the point already.

“We’ve just got too much-”

“Okay Sam!” you’re near tears now, feeling told off and embarrassed.

Sam take two big steps, right up to your feet, and gathers your face to his with both hands. He kisses you, noses pushed into cheeks, and he muffles “I’m sorry, Y/N, I won’t do it again,”’ before kissing you more. So much more.

You muffle a noise in return, your eyebrows tilting helplessly as you fight off the emotion from drama you’re just not used to, all of it mashed up with the sensation of Sam’s face against yours – his smell, his smoothness, his hands.

“Next time, I will ask you. And I will tell you about that stuff, okay?” he says, his breath right against your mouth.

“Okay,” you try to nod. Your hands are on his waist and you dont even bother opening your eyes.

“I can’t,” he pauses, pulls back barely two inches, panting lightly… “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want you to fight next to us, I want you _with_ us, with me for as long as possible,” he’s beginning to run his words together now, “I dreamed of you, with the djinn, you’re important to me, Y/N, and I’ll do what I can to keep you-”

“You what with the djinn?”

“I dreamed of you, and we were happy,” he describes, holding your head tight in emphasis, “you were happy because of me. Do you-”

You knock his wrists away, grab his head and tilt him for your kiss. The swiftest of licks on his lip, his mouth already mid gasp from your move, and you’ve pulled him in for something consuming and passionate. Something that’s the start of something more, and he moans like he knows it.

Quickly he reassigns his hands – one on your waist and one right between your shoulder blades. Then he bends his knees so he can get his forearm on your back too and scoops the other under your butt. He lifts and rams you into the car and it’s so hard you think he misjudged the distance. With the air near pressed out of you, you gasp and roll your kiss, both of you all lips and pressure on each other’s mouth.

You turn your head to get some air and Sam kisses hungrily at your cheek, over to your ear and jaw. “Wait, Sam-” you tap on him.

“Hmm,” he says against you, then pauses and puffs, his nose in your ear. “Yeah.”

“We should… we should take this some place else,” you pant, patting him on the shoulder. “Like where?” he asks. You know you’re saying _where_ but you’re actually thinking of _what…_ and how much of it. You take a while, and he starts to move again, smearing his face in your neck, rolling his body against yours, and asks “Where, Y/N? Where do you want us?” Like you can think, or something.

“Ugh, shit,” you whisper to yourself. “I want…” So hard to concentrate… “My room.”

“Yeah? Really?”

“Yes,” you answer and look at his chest when you confess, “Well, I’ve imagined you there enough already…”

Slowly, you look up at him and he’s speechless. He licks his lower lip, pulling it in for a thoughtful bite while he stares at you, eventually saying “Yeah… know how you feel.”

He swallows and eases off you, sliding you down and letting his hands slip around yours to squeeze. He backs away, fingers dropping between you, and walks to the passenger side. You run your hands up and down your thighs a few times, take a few deep breaths, and fish out your keys before unlocking and getting in the car.

You sit there a moment…

“You okay?” he checks.

You nod seriously. “Yeah, just,” you clear your throat, “hands are a bit… shaky.”

Even on the edge of your vision, you know those dimples and you roll your eyes patiently.

Quietly, he says, “I’d offer to skip your room and just… but these bucket seats…”

“Bucket seats are what’s gonna save your ass,” you say, starting the engine. “Pretty sure you plus bench seats would make me an unsafe driver.”

You pull out, remembering to turn on the headlights, Sam’s high-beam smile right beside you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YouTube links for this ch too - turn off auto play.  
> And can I just say how pissy I am that all the Marvin Gaye stuff is absent on YouTube. *grump* (I mean, I get why, but Got to Give It Up should be here, as well as the original Lets Get it On. Nuf said.)

Sam closes the door behind him, throwing his jacket, phone and keys on the table to his left. He’s carefully looking at you already at the sink and filling a glass from the tap. Your mind is racing and you’re wondering if you should be offering a beer or something stronger, or if you should be looking at the average state of the room or if it’d be sexier to not give a shit at all.

You turn to lean and drink, Sam’s steady steps counting down to the moment you can’t pretend to be thirsty any more.

You spot your sports bra and yesterday’s panties draped over the edge of your open bag and close your eyes and drink, finishing the water in one go. You almost pull off not-puffed when you ask “You want a drink or somethin’?” before Sam has to wait any longer.

He looks at you patiently, cautiously, and you add “Beer? Somethin’ stronger,” as you get your breath back. You’re vaguely aware of the noise from next door, some happy women sounding like they’re drinking.

“No,” he answers politely, leaning on the bench beside you. “Nope, I’m good.”

“Cool,” you nod. “That’s great.” You take a steadying breath. “You were saying, about… _the women_ ,” you wince at the phrase.

“Uuuughshit,” Sam rubs his forehead, “I explained that so badly.”

“No, look-” You push away from the bench and stand in front of him, just out of reach.

Sam doesn’t want to press you. He’s starting to think that his waiting – or his not starting – is because he feels guilty: He feels like he’s cheated on you already.

“I’m not offended,” you say. “I never was. And I don’t think sleeping around is bad. I kinda wish I was confident enough to pick up and do all that – shit, the job certainly warrants it – but,” you look sideways, unsure if you can explain it and clear your throat. “The only way it ever bothered me, which I ignored _really hard_ , was that I… wished you’d pick me.”

“I wanted to, but thought I shouldn’t, working together and all,” he admits. “You just got me going so much…”

You squinted at him at that.

“It’s not easy, Y/N, hunting with you…” he crosses his ankles. He likes telling you, but he’s still shy. “Being next to you when you’re quick and strong, and carrying you sometimes, and you’re… impressive.” He shrugs a little and looks around your shoes, around the room, eyes landing on the bathroom. “By the time we get back to the motel and you’re washing a whole lot of work off your body in there I’m…”

“Really?” you can hardly believe it, that he’s thought of you like this.

“Every time I turn to look at you sitting behind Dean, in the back seat… Weeks ago, it was this perfect hot day, and from the front I can see your whole.. form… and I had an image of you sliding over to me…”

He doesn’t move. Not one muscle. His stillness lasts long enough for you to notice your own, and long enough again to make you nervous.

[A noise cuts into your space. ](https://youtu.be/l5aZJBLAu1E?list=PLanqPzVm_HLY-yY2XaHLXjnlkmEAnmHye)There’s happy yelling, someone says _Yes!_ and then there’s low music you can’t identify. You stare at the wall over Sam’s shoulder and he twitches as he listens, both of you smiling awkwardly at each other.

Sam tries to go on as though the noise isn’t an issue. “I was just brainlessly using our usual habits to forget about you… or imagine you-”

Someone screeches _Turn it up!!_ and you get the barely-muffled and unmistakable lyrics of “-first time in his-tor-y, it’s gonna start rainin’ men!”

Your eyebrows, yours and Sam’s, they just tilt and plead, like _No. Now? …This?_

There’s no ignoring it. The women next door started singing along and you can hear, or feel, their jumping with the beat. You put your hands on your hips and hope they’re gearing up to leave.

“Okay,” you take a deep breath and try again. “Well, I don’t think-”

 _Nonononono_ someone says and the conversation runs low as the volume drops on the music. Then _WOOOOHOOOO! Yeah sister!_ And you throw your hands out in sky-sent prayer saying “Fucking hell!”

You rest your weight on one leg, hand on hip, looking at the wall like _A goddamn break? Please?_ Because now there’s [Let’s Get it On](https://youtu.be/NZZcQCs2KEo) coming through, and you look at the ceiling saying “Is this how I become one of the gang? With my fucking luck?”

Sam cracks, laughing that gorgeous laugh as he crosses his arms and lets his hair fall onto his forehead. “Could be worse,” Sam shrugs.

“No,” you concede chewing your lips, “Could be worse…”

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” he checks, brow wrinkled.

“No, I don’t mind,” you say and smile at him.

There’s not much else to say anyway…

You kick him in the foot and his smile goes sideways as he shifts his feet apart to make space for you. He lets his arms unfold and reaches out for you, fingers hooking and threading in yours as you come close. Your fiddling hands hang by his thighs as you look at his neck and chin and his eyes flit over your face.

“Please don’t feel like you have to apologise,” you summarise. “Except for the stalking part, I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Sam nods, “I am sorry for the stalking part, and I am really glad that you’re fine with… everything else.”

“Yeah,” you reply. Somehow his friendly, thankful smile morphs in a way you can hardly describe but your breath catches in your chest because it’s like the lights have dimmed themselves and the room went and got _small._

“So you’ve imagined me in your room,” he says lowly, grinning at your shy, dimpled reaction. “Doing what?”

You look over his shoulder, not even sure you want to share but helplessly flicking through the many, _many_ answers you have for that, all of them well beyond where you’re at now…

“No, I can’t…” you look at him, his hot cheeky smile flicking in millimetres as he watches you. “Maybe later.”

“How does it start?” he asks, encouraging you. He draws patterns on your palms with his thumbs, and you chew your lip. “Who starts it? You or me?”

“Both,” you answer, and let the weight of his arms pull you toward him, so you don’t have to look at his whole, stunning, distracting face as you talk. Your belly rests on him and you feel his thighs give for your width.

“What, like a fight?” he smirks, “Or just, both on board?”

“Sometimes,” you say, flipping your fingers so you can roll your knuckles in his palms, feeling his long fingers curl around yours. “But I mean it’s different each time…” He leans in, barely needing to tilt now, and kisses in front of your ear while he listens. “Sometimes I’m pulling you into the room by your belt buckle, sometimes I’m against the door… Sometimes it’s so grabby you couldn’t say who’s winning.”

Sam drops your hands. He takes hold of you, high on your waist, with as wide a grip as his handspan allows, and cups your head so you’ll face him for a kiss. It’s firm and full, all inhaling, and he tastes you once, twice, before it snaps slack and he breathes against you, saying “Tell me more?”

“Um…” you try to think of where to begin because the conversation isn’t a bad idea but his lips are nibbling across your cheek and the kitten-lick sound of it alone makes you close your eyes. “Sometimes you cut in on a guy hitting on me… if I haven’t shooed him away first.” Your hands rest on his chest and ribs while you feel him on you.

Sam smiles against you. “I used to like watching them try,” he says and glances at you when he adds _“used_ to. What else?”

“Showers,” you answer, your bravery building. “It’s been a while since I showered without thinking of you. You’d come in, pull back the curtain and say something about Dean being gone for a while and-”

“Just go for it?” Sam completes your thought. “Yeah, I know that one well.” He leans over again and picks up where he left off, right on the corner of your jaw. “You get all shiny and slippery and slide your curves on me,” he muffles it into your skin and you tilt your head back for him while his hands hold you close. “Your hair sticks to the tiles and we have to have another shower to wash off all the sweat.”

The room next door seems to have emptied even though the music is still going; You don’t even remember hearing the door. His hands slide over your back and pull you close. “What else?” you sigh.

“Sometimes I imagine sneaking into your room, crawling under the covers and just kind of, infiltrate your dreaming…”

 _Oh god, you’ve already worked your way into those… but yeah. Yes. Shit, did I just sigh?…_ Then you start to giggle at the symmetry of it.

“What?” he asks. “Besides being hella creepy, what’s wrong with that?”

“In mine I sneak into your bed and we have to be extra quiet coz of Dean.” You kiss him happily and neither of you do it properly thanks to your smiles. Then you think of something that he might like: “Sometimes you have to put you hand over my mouth,” his lips falter a little and you kiss him a bit harder, “and I like it.” You go harder still, tongue lapping, mumbling “You like it too.”

His fingertips squeeze you. “Y/N-”

“What else?” you say quietly. You haven’t even moved your hands yet: _This muscle and these ribs are just fine, thank you very much._

He takes a second to respond. “It’s been pretty hard to sleep since I saw you belly dancing,” he confesses. “You were so… liquid. It was hypnotising.”

Well, that is a sweet compliment, and you are warmed with flattery, but now you can’t wait to tell him “I knew you were watching me on the dance floor tonight. I saw you.”

“What?” he stops a moment, “And you just kept on dancing?”

“I danced harder,” you kiss, “for you.”

“Fuck,” he sighs, swallowing and adjusting his weight a little, not least of all to ease his jeans.

“What else?” you say, kissing over his cheek and slowly moving your fingers up to his neck, dragging them up and down the muscular length before caressing into his hairline and taking your lips over to his ear.

“On the car,” he says, “wondering if Dean will notice your ass print on the hood-”

“Definitely,” you bet, your breath high in your chest. _Shit he’s gone there too._

“Maybe… breast and hand prints on the trunk,” he kisses you back where he can reach. Now it’s your turn to trip your lips coz the image of him testing the Impala’s suspension like that has hijacked your vision.

You come back to his mouth, your hand now cupping his jaw, thumb stroking his cheek bone.

“I wonder if he’ll notice me going down on you while he pays for gas,” you share, giving up on the kissing while you dive into what you’re learning is Sam’s deep interest in sexy talk. “You keep pushing your back against the seat and flip between swearing and asking me to stop – weakly – and you can’t figure out how to hold my head softly.”

Sam’s frozen, staring at you, maybe his hands are getting tighter.

“Let’s do that,” you say, the look on his face starting to edge on undone and you’re not trying to play with him at all. “Let me go down on you?” and you start kissing his neck suggestively with wet kisses and licking nips.

“No, Y/N,” Sam stutters, “I won’t last-”

“I can wait till you want to again,” you say against his skin, right in the corner of his neck, fingers tight in his hair as he tilts for you. “Go on Sam, let me get my mouth on your cock,” - he grunts in reply, his thoughts consumed, hands randomly caressing you while he listens and copes - “I’ll wrap my lips around the head and feel how silky you are, lick around the crease and suck your salt,” - he whispers _Uh fuck Y/N_ , rolling his head around yours as you drag your tongue across his throat. You start to rub over his jeans with your hand, tracing the outline of his erection while you move his head so you can talk into his lips.

“I’ll slide my hand up and down and keep your balls nice and warm,” you continue and he’s starting to writhe as he protests “Y/N, I won’t-” “C'mon Sam, don’t you want to feel my tongue back here?” you ask, firmly drawing your finger along the centre seam of his jeans, behind his balls. He sucks in half a breath, grunting an _UH!_ and that’s the tipping point.

Sam snatches your forearms, which releases his head, and holds one behind you in a hug so he can walk you backwards. “Y/N,” he growls, “I won’t last. _We are not doing that first.”_

“You sure you don’t want-”

“You know I do,” he frowns, “but not as much as I want this.” He thumps your ass onto the table top, at it’s short end with the door not that far to your right. Table feet scrape over the floor as he starts wrenching your jeans open and he says “You realise we’re going to have to do all those things now.”

Your hips are jerked by his movements and he’s quickly got a full-handed grip on both waistbands, his forearms by your thighs as he leans down and readies to get them off. He looks up at you from this angle with a thoroughly whetted and determined appetite. “I can imagine a lot of things but I wanna know what you sound like.”

He motions for you to lift your hips and you automatically do so, only for your elbows to fall against the table because he’s wriggling your jeans and panties so roughly, removing your boots along the way. He leans over your body and nuzzles in your hip, watching your breathing increase. “Lie back,” he suggests. You take his advice since your fingers are already in mid-air, waiting to know what to hold, and you realise you’re actually extremely nervous about this. He must detect it somehow.

“I’ve imagined so much with you Y/N but this,” he kisses across your pelvic bone, his chin beginning to work into the crease at your thigh, “this I’ve literally dreamed of.” He pushes the hem of your t-shirt up, beyond your breasts, and drags an open palm back down your torso.

“Really,” you breathe, finding his head and ears with your fingertips. The weight of your legs has your pelvis tilted down. Only the tips of your toes touch the ground. He gets his hands under your ass and holds you like a bowl, him enjoying the cushion and you loving the feeling of his palms fingers spread over your cheeks.

“Oh yeah,” he nuzzles more firmly, and you start to breathe through your nose to control yourself. “Even the taste.”

And that’s when he breaks the seal, his tongue slipping between your folds and moving down and up. You make a sound, your lips breaking open, and one of your hands finds the edge of the table for a white-knuckle hold.

He licks back and forth a few times, running the tip of his tongue along the soft ridges and hidden dips, and swirls around your clitoris before kissing it firmly. You feel the heat of yourself, all your blood being called to him, and quickly he has everything swelling, the lips slowly parting with fullness. He starts working lightly in the easier access, tracing peaks and flicking points. The way your nerves react pulls at your legs, knees pulsing upwards in answer to his movements, and soon you’re arching your back in compensation, your hand lightly holding his head as you feel your skull slide over the hardness of the table.

He ducks down, one knee on the ground, circling your entrance with his tongue and lapping at the dint, the licks becoming firmer and deeper and you start saying his name. Then he reaches his tongue as far as he can to taste inside you and your volume jumps with surprise. You think his teeth and lips pressing against you is the most obscenely hot thing you’ve ever felt, but then he fucking _moans…_

Thankfully, it isn’t long before he stops. He adjusts his hands, both of them coming over you, and uses his shoulders to support your legs some. He collects the fat folds of your pussy and gently massages them further apart, the teasing tickle of it surprising you and he’s kisses your clit. He bounces his attention and your throat reacts accordingly, your heels tapping on his back as he works you.

You don’t know it but he keeps looking up at you, keeps watching to see your lace-covered breasts move about, your lungs fighting to rise and fall with some sort of evenness, and catches glimpses of your cheeks getting brighter and brighter.

He stops again and you hear a quick, wet sound before two fingers are threaded into your core. You suck a deep breath through your teeth and he pauses, letting you puff for a moment. “So much better than I dreamed, Y/N,” he says.

“Oh, shit Sam,” you pant, “’S'not fair.”

“You taste so sweet,” he says, shifting his other hand under you to hold the opposite hip, his forearm supporting you. His reach and shoulder push your leg outward and high and you make little pleading noises as you feel him slowly spread and scissor his fingers in you. “Just perfect down here.”

“God, Sam,” you plead, rasping. _“Please…”_

“Tell me, Y/N, anything…” he says, letting his lips move your folds with the words.

“Uh! I don’t know!” you cry, beginning to writhe desperately in his hold, the futility of it a whole other turn-on.

“Okay.” He kisses your clit again, this time suckling it as his fingers push and move in you, hooking to find the soft cushiony patch he can taste.

“Aaaaah!” you’re near screaming and you grab his head. _“Saaaam!!”_ It only takes four or five strokes before the nerves he controls burst and take off. For a moment you’re scared of the release, but you feel it shake your whole pussy and race down your legs. Whatever sound you make hurts your throat. Your cheeks and chest seem to flash with heat and, for a moment, you’re not sure you can control your fingers. But you can feel Sam there, between your legs still holding you with the heat of his hand over your vulva as he hugs.

He kisses around your belly and you try to calm. You stroke his hair as best you can and feel him flip his hand and he moves up, his palm and fingers resting over your pussy still. “Take your shirt off,” you say quietly.

You help a little, and he flings it over near your things, his hand coming back to your groin.

“Take my shirt off,” you say, and he grins at you while he supports your neck so you can both get you down to just your bra.

Again Sam’s holding you between your legs, and you begin to rub your legs together, squeezing his hand a little. “You like things down there?” you ask, smiling languidly.

“Yes,” he grins some more, that beautiful white smile setting off your view of toned shoulder and arm muscles reaching for your softness as he leans over you. He glances down at what he’s got and the sight of the colour of your belly and thighs all pink because of him. “Yeah, I love it,” he says, and juts his jaw at you playfully as he slightly shakes his hold, _“Love this.”_

You grin and pull him down for a kiss, your elbow wrapping around his neck as you arch your body and curl your legs around him, trying to get close to his hovering form.

“Thank you,” you sigh, between your deep kisses. “You’re going to have to wait for me now.”

He hums and cups your head, his returning kiss bouncing your noses and foreheads off each other. “Worth it.”

His cupping hand slides under your ass, his fingers spreading over your lower back and holds your neck as he hinges you to sit. He takes your wet weight on his upper arm and kisses around your cleavage as he sits himself in one of the kitchen chairs and slides his arm to the crook of your knee. You rest on his lap and drape yourself over his hot chest while you wait for everything to calm the hell down and, God willing, recover.


	7. Chapter 7

This is nice.

This is the nicest nice you can ever remember. You can see, from here, curves of tanned skin. A muscle bunches and lengthens as Sam’s hand moves up and down your back. Sometimes his chin drops down by your brow, and you have a different view of his neck from here. You trace a light touch along his collar bone, drag a few fingers down his chest, and close your eyes again when he kisses your forehead. His fingers start brushing your hair away from your ear and he readjusts his hold on your thigh.

You’re relaxed and rested, Sam having given you all the time you’ve wanted, without comment, and now’s about the time you’re starting to take advantage of the situation. You smile and hug and snuggle.

Sam must detect it, coz he starts to chuckle under you.

“What?”

“You’re way too comfy,” he says.

“Sorry, you must be really _not_ comfy in this chair,” you say, sitting up and watching your fingers slide down his body and back up to his neck. You leave one there and slip the other into his hair and kiss him, leaning back to pull him away from the hard wooden backrest. His hands run up your back and pull you close, sliding you into the depth of his lap as he straightens, bellies pressed.

“How you doing?” you ask him. You haven’t anything in mind, but already your flavour of thought is beyond his pants. He smiles against you, mumbling “I’m doin’ okay.”

“This may sound strange, and I’m not sure how it’s true, but I think I’ll be more comfortable without my bra on.”

He frowns at you, almost laughing.

“I feel like I’m meant to be wearing panties or something,” you snigger. “Get it off me.”

He undoes the clasp and slides his fingers over your shoulders to release the straps, letting his hands drift over to your breasts as you throw your underwear aside. He massages as you kiss each other and you roll your bare chest into his warmth.

Your hands soon find their way south, fingers tucking behind his waist band and you ask him “Remember what we were talking about before?”

“Mmmph,” he acknowledges, “Still… still no.”

You stop and look at him. “Trying not to be offended-”

“No, trust me, it’s a compliment,” he assures. “I promise, after tonight you can do that whenever you want-”

Your eyes pop, a Cheshire smile growing, and you’re about to force a pinky-swear on that sentence.

“-within reason!” he holds a finger up between you.

“In the Impala?” you suggest, your mind racing with possibilities.

“Maybe, but-”

“Under the table?!”

“Y/N, you can’t just list places-”

“Just, let me ask, do you want me,” you say, pushing him back against the chair again as you slide off his lap, kneel on the floor and sit on your heels, “to check with you the night before if I plan on waking you by sucking on your cock?”

You flick his belt’s tongue out from the buckle frame and yank it to release the pin, jerking him in his seat. The leather slaps back and Sam’s swallow falls slack as he looks down at you, naked and salacious, draped over his thighs.

“Yes,” he breaths slackly. “Probably… maybe…” His tongue runs over the back of his teeth. You halve your speed, slowly unthreading the leather from the metal and take hold of the button, awaiting his interruption.

He clamps his jaw and looks at your hands so you go ahead, moving slower and slower just to watch his muscles twitch as you pop the button, the unzipping almost glacial, and wrap your fingers around the denim to pull. Your fingernails graze the hardness-

“Not now,” he bursts out, taking hold of your upper arms to lift you to kneel and he leans forrwad.

You’re really enjoying making him snap. “But you said-”

 _“Sex,_ Y/N,” he says through his teeth. “Sex, with you, right now.” His nose is next to yours but he’s not really kissing, just talking against your face. He lifts you with him until you’re both standing and he’s leaned you backwards over the table with his own shape. “That’s what I want. Me inside your body. Me, in you-”

“Not my mouth-”

His hand takes the back of your neck and forces your chin down with his own, opening your mouth so he can lick at your tongue and kiss you deeply. You _mmmph_ at the heady musk of him and your recent juices, and make a quavering sigh as he slips two fingers back into your pussy.

“Not like that,” he confirms.

Your hands start flitting over his pants, pushing the fabric and searching for his hardness. He removes his fingers from your warmth and finds a condom in his pocket before the pants are gone. As soon as his erection is free you’re using your toes to get the jeans down.

He moves away with a quick kiss and sits on the chair, quickly rolling on the protection and bends over to get his boots off.

You roll over on the table and press your front to the laminate. “Like this then?” you ask, presenting your ass to him.

He glares at you between fumbling with the lacing. “Y/N,” he groans, his expression saying _I’m busy here…_

“Mmmm I hope it’s this way, at least for a while,” you tease.

He really is trying to be angry at you, but he smiles and shakes his head at his boots.

“C'mon Sam,” you wiggle at him, “leave the boots. Fuck me.”

Sam wrenches the bindings, trying to toe off a shoe but gets caught on the denim, the leverage weak while he’s sitting.

You slide your hand over your cheek and dip a finger into yourself, then carefully shift your feet apart.

 _“Fuuuck,”_ Sam groans and gives in. He leans over, both hands grabbing onto your hips and growling a bite onto your rump, right on the rise of it, fast working his lips and teeth up to your waist, back and to your shoulder. You can feel exactly where he is, just from the radiant heat. He kisses behind your ear as you detect his hand guiding himself to your entrance and you strum your fingers over his hip bone, encouraging him to come closer, to get in you.

As soon as he has purchase he slides forward, both of you moaning with the feeling. You didn’t get a good look at him before but, according to your ass, you want for nothing. There’s a sweet ache around him, at his base and to the front. In fact his whole thickness is testing you exquisitely, and his reach is deep and satisfying without discomfort. You sigh and give thanks, squeezing around him a little, just to say hello.

He moans and works back and forth in reply, then threads his fingers between yours, pressing your hands to the table so that his shape lays directly over you – the lumps of his muscles along your arms, his chest against your shoulder blades, the hair of his legs brushing your thighs, his lower belly on your pelvis and his near-silky inner hip hugging your ass. When he slides his cheek over your ear and kisses your jaw, the picture feels complete.

He works himself back and forth in a slow shallow rhythm, but it’s tight. You think he might be holding himself back and you’re beginning to jut backwards to shorten the beat. He presses down on your hands to suggest he’s in charge but you ignore it.

Sam starts kissing around your hair, releasing a hand so he can sweep it away, and something buzzes. It’s Sam’s phone, quite close to you, with Dean’s name on the screen.

You accept the call before picking it up, Sam’s protest all too late.

“Hi Dean,” you answer.

“Hey Y/N,” he says, “Is Sam with you?”

Sam slowly pulls out but you don’t trust him to not ram back into you, so you flip the phone and turn on the speaker. Your hunch feels confirmed when Sam pauses.

“Yeah, he’s right here,” you answer casually.

“Right,” Dean answers hesitantly.

“Hey Dean,” Sam says, almost covering his awkwardness. “What’s up?”

You push yourself back onto him and he pins your wrists to anchor you.

“Just came back to an empty motel room is all,” he explains, “and no message.”

“Sam, I can’t believe you didn’t text him,” you say. “That’s a bit crap.”

“Uh, yeah, I-” Sam’s frowning at you in disbelief. He snatches up the phone and turns off the speaker before putting it to his ear. In that time you get a bit more distance from the table, his pants-tangled ankles shuffling back as you do. Sam fills the fumbling silence with “Sorry, yeah, don’t know what happened there, but I’m fine-” It’s awkward for him, with the height difference, and as he talks to Dean he moves back further and leans against the wall, by the front door, knees bent and thighs working to hold himself up. “Just in Y/N’s room-”

You rock forward and back, able to lean your forearms on the table to get a bit of force.

Sam breathes out his nose to manage the feeling. “We’re both fine,” he grinds.

“Are you guys fighting?” you hear Dean ask. “You sound pissed.”

“No,” Sam says, voice too light and you pull away again. “We’re okay,” and turns the phone to his shoulder as you thump back onto him, your force starting to be heard in the wall. You drop your head and breathe a soft moan at how awesome he feels. You start a steady back and forth rock and let yourself sigh gently as you go, “Oh, what do you think Sam? …is it good?”

“Is she doin’ a belly dance for you?” Dean slurs.

“What? Hu- no-”

“Oh that’s a good idea,” you comment and tremble your hips in a tight shimmy.

Sam sucks a long breath through his teeth at you quivering around him, the tremor being felt in his balls and everything. He tilts his eyebrows desperately over eyes squeezed shut, and eases out the most measured and silent exhale he can manage, willing you to stop with a bruising grip on your hip.

“Dude, you okay?”

“Mmhmm,” Sam says, trying to control himself while you regain your pumping rhythm from before. “I… stubbed my toe.”

“Okay, well, don’t go getting distracted. If you want to ask about the dancing just ask, and ask soon,” Dean says, unaware of how Sam’s hand is grabbing around your hips and pressing, skipping up your back, trying to keep you from going faster. His boots slip along the floor as he tries to get purchase against the wall.

“Y/N,” he whispers, “shit!”

“You can’t keep a secret like that from her,” Dean continues, “it’ll just blow up in your lap.”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam says, wincing as he surrenders and just grabs onto the door handle to hold himself up. He thumps his head against the wall sighing “Yeah, that’s good advice Dean.”

You thrust back onto him, hard this time, using the table enough to make it move and squeak on the floor. You let out a solid moan at the sound of Sam’s hips thumping against the wall. He puts his hand over his mouth and frowns himself quiet.

“So you’ll tell her?” Dean checks.

You keep on with the speed, loving the sound of Sam against the plaster and your cheeks against his skin, not to mention the depth. His boots skid on the floor again, his hand rattling the doorknob and you can hear his breathing getting desperate as you speed up. “Y/N,” he whispers, _“Christ, Y/N?!!”_

“Sam-”

“Yeah Dean I’ll tell her but look I gotta go. See y'tomorrow kay?” Sam babbles, the words being bounced out of him.

“Okay… Sam?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Sam!”  
_“What?!”_

“Is she using her mouth?”

“What?”

“Or are you getting roundly fucked?”

 _“Goddamit!”_ Sam throws the phone on the ground, ignoring the second or so of Dean chuckling, and grabs the window sill as you fuck back onto him as fast as you can. “Uh! Fuck! Y/N!”

He gives it only two more beats before bracing himself and snatching your hips still, his cock halfway there. “Jesus Christ,” he gasps. He swallows a few breaths then pushes you away.

Before you can think of something to say, he’s reached under your chest to pull you against him and turned you to face the wall. He presses you there and slides his cock up between your ass cheeks.

“You’re lucky, Y/N,” he pants through clenched jaw.

“I know,” you huff back.

“No, you’re lucky I want to fuck you,” you says. “Fuck you the way I want, not the way you deserve.”

He turns you around, pinning your head to the wall with a hot-winded, biting kiss, his hands either side of your shoulders, as his feet finally force off his shoes and work off his pants. As soon as he’s free he reaches down, gets a firm hold on the back of each thigh and lifts you, spreading your legs around him and finding your core. He thrusts in and your mouths pop open loudly at the hot, enveloping and filling sensation. Your wrap your arm around his head, the other over his shoulder, and let yourself take his fast and punishing fuck.

The low rattling sound you hear is the door – you’re against a flimsy, hollow door and you’re not sure it likes it. Then you hear something crack and you say “Sam! Uh!- Sam, the door!”

“What,” he puffs gruffly, pausing.

“I think we’re breaking the door,” you puff back.

He thumps up into you, his fingers pressing into your legs and ass. “I don’t think I care,” he says, then pauses long enough to look at you, long enough to take in your swollen lips and red cheeks, your eyelashes almost clumped and forehead shiny.

When he speaks again, his voice is soft and affectionate and he lets his nose nudge yours. “You feel pretty perfect.”

“You keep using that word,” you say, enjoying his high colour. “I’m not perfect.”

“Well,” Sam says, adjusting his hold and taking you with him as he eases off the door. “I can’t imagine any better, and I don’t want any different.” He supports you in one arm and hugs you with the other, his hand coming to cup the back of your head as he kisses you deeply and softly. You moan into him, loving the contrast of soft and hard at either end. “What else would perfect be?” he concludes.

He turns and steadily walks you both to a bed, kissing you back as you hold on tight. He slides a knee onto the mattress, as far as he can reach, and arranges you on his lap, his heels digging into his butt cheeks.

“You comfy?” you check.

“Yeah, enough,” he replies, kissing gently around your lips.

“No, are you actually comfortable,” you insist and he smiles at you again, “put me where you really want me Sam.”

Sam groans, happily, and wraps his arms around you, his hands moving about, holding and reholding your back, head, hips, jaw in affection and thanks.

He takes a deep breath and lowers you to the comforter, your head short of the pillows, not pausing a moment before starting a lovely, surging rhythm in you. It’s firm and deep, every thrust emphasised on contact, the root of him pushing your softness open, hair sliding against hair, your heavy lips kissing him each time your hips meet. There’s nothing languid about it. His movements are full-bodied and you both work hard to give each other all the contact and access you can create, focused and alert for each others’ shapes and sounds.

The only thing keeping his tempo restrained is the desire to draw it out, but everything you do pulls him in; Your eyes close every time your jaw drops open, and although he likes to get in the corners and dips, he keeps feeling like something should be there on your lips and tongue, they look so heightened with want. Your fingers slide over his back and up over his skull, and the way you arch for the contact teases his gaze down over your form and all that gorgeous, rocking, beckoning skin. You slide your legs over his, up and over his ass. It feels like you’re moving for him, on his behalf.

Then Sam hears you. You’ve been making noises the whole time, little _uuuhoh_ aches and tight inhales, _nnng_ sounds that make your eyebrows twitch down. He’s stroking gently over your hair and your breast, and grazes your nipple to see what you might like.

It makes you draw breath a little. “Sam,” you whisper, eyes closed and sucking your lower lip. He does it again and your fingers grip him. “Sam,” you repeat lightly and open your eyes to see how he is.

He’s shining, watching, but so clearly listening to the feel of you around him and wanting to do more. You find his hand and pull his thumb into your mouth. Somehow the size of his fingers over your cheek and the reach of his thumb on your tongue, it’s as hot as hell’s kitchen, and you can’t keep yourself quiet for this. You run your tongue around the knuckles, the web of his hand against your lips, and suck it wet, moaning decadently. “Y/N,” he puffs, “Christ.” He thumps a little harder the next few times.

You lengthen yourself, pushing your head back and quickly lead his hand to your lower lips, placing his thumb at the peak of your clit and showing him how lightly you want it. He kisses you wetly, and starts fucking you harder, letting the force of him move you under his thumb. You gasp and moan high into his mouth, his hot breath heaving over your burning cheeks and neck, and you start to grab at him, his neck and shoulder and ribs and back, as he builds force. His breathing gets noisy, the short moans giving you a sign, and soon your hands have stopped moving, they’re just holding on as you focus on every unwoven nerve in your core singing with the feel of his veins, and heat, and hardness, and reach, all of it coming again and again and again.

When you say his name - a high, desperate _“Saaam!”_ \- he presses down and tilts his hips further, grunting harshly as he leans his chin on yours and you cry out over the last thrusts of him dragging and fucking you tender. He matches your volume, an “UH! Aaah _-uh,_ huh, uh!” starting a short conversation of groans and hums between you. And then its just him, deep in you, puffing and sweaty, his fingers pressed into your head, thumb by your ear, and your knuckles are creaking as they ease off. Your foreheads nearly slip off each other while you wait for your puffing to ease, both of you frowning.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're filled in on the Winchesters saga and you get Sam on the dance floor. (Damn kids and their dancing...)

“So, Y/N,” Dean says, third shot glass freshly emptied. “Am I ever gonna get to see some of that belly dancing?”

This is how Dean chooses to bring up your ‘secret’.

“No,” you say firmly, your own shot under your nose. “No, I’ll just let you imagine that for yourself.”

“Done and done,” he winks, and you knock back your drink.

“Dean, please don’t flirt with Y/N,” Sam says, a history of patience behind his tone.

“Don’t worry Sammy,” he assures, collecting his whiskey chaser. “Pretty sure it isn’t going to go anywhere.”

“Not unless he starts showing me _his_ belly dancing,” you grin and nod at the dance floor encouragingly.

“Aw, c'mon,” Sam moans, rubbing his face, “someone’s gotta be on my side.”

Dean’s here under duress, out numbered in the vote of venue, and politely tolerating the thumping music. “I’ll add it to the bucket list,” he says to you.

Sam levels a scolding glare at him for such a comment – referring to the deal they’d only just explained this morning - so you put your hand on his arm as you say “Let’s add it to mine, okay? And maybe, _if_ you get your ass to a swing dancing class, I might consider teaching you a few other moves.”

“That’s asking a lot, Y/N,” Dean advises. “And I’m, like, really busy right now?” he grins. “Back soon.” He leaves for the bathroom, making a face at you when you say “Hmmm, not as brave as I thought.”

You turn to Sam and ask suggestively. “Would you go to a dance class with me?”

“Yep,” he meets the challenge cheekily. “Name it.”

“Oooooh New Vogue?”

“Nope, not-”

“You boneless, lily-livered-”

He kisses you, and you happily go with it, loving the size of his hand cupping your head. When it breaks he gets in quickly with “I’m pretty sure you don’t like New Vogue either.”

“Let’s ignore, for a moment, your intriguing knowledge of New Vogue and just agree that, no, it’s not my favourite,” you admit. “But based on recent performances I think you’d be pretty awesome at Latin styles. Or any partnered dance really.”

“Yeah?” he pecks your lips.

“Yes, very much,” you peck back.

If you’d seen the way you smiled at each other now, nothing would’ve stayed down. Thank goodness Dean wasn’t there, which is also why you kiss some more, tasting and feeling each other, getting close and closer until he reappears.

“Hey! Hi!” he snaps. “Save it for the back row!”

“You took ages,” Sam says.

“Yeah, what the hell is this place?” he begins to gripe. “I get there and it’s says _Us_ on the right and _Them_ on the left. Fucking unhelpful thanks.”

“You’re _Them,”_ you advise.

“Yah, I got that, _eventually,”_ he states, “but how the fuck do you know that?”

“I dunno,” you shrug. “We’re just always Us… We do tend to go in groups.”

“Maybe it that you’re always right?” Sam suggests.

“You’re a goddamn traitor,” Dean points at him.

“Oooookay,” you say, and rest your flat hands on the table to change the topic. “Tell me about Ruby.”

“Uuugh. We’re gonna need more alcohol…”

* * *

 

You’re glad, by the end of it, that at least some the catch-up and fill-in happened over drinks. You got a layer of honesty that’s made you feel much more included and although it had been awkward and nerves were still raw, you’re pretty sure the brothers had found some use in summarising their current situation too. Thank goodness it was done, though, because it was emotionally exhausting.

“I think,” you take a deep breath. “Oh shit, I need some smiles. You gonna dance with me Sam?”

“Uuuh, okay,” he says. He gives you this tight little smile like _I really want to but shiiiiiii-_ Or maybes it’s because Avril Lavigne’s Girlfriend is playing… You squeeze his hand as hard as you grin.

“Hey,” you lean over the table to Dean, “I might go get a glass of water. Which woman should I nod your way when I do that?” There was a row of girls – variously hesitant, patient and/or ravenous – leaning against the bar, waiting to make their move on Dean. The poor things had been watching him and Sam argue over how to describe the past months and years, and Dean’s been flipping through angry, grim, laughing and cocky for the past however long. It must’ve been an eyeful.

Dean’s smile sparkles at you. “You’re awesome, Y/N, but I’m going to get something too, so it’s all good.” He grins at you and winks at Sam, slides out of the booth and pretends the direction he picks has nothing to do with the dark-haired beauty in the halter-neck top.

You slide out of the booth with Sam’s hand still in yours and decide on the dance floor instead, Sam feeling a little heavier than usual thanks to his hesitation. [Amy Winehouse’s Rehab](https://youtu.be/KUmZp8pR1uc?list=PLanqPzVm_HLY-yY2XaHLXjnlkmEAnmHye) is playing and it’s a nice interesting beat, something you can drop a hip into, flick your shape around, but mostly you like it coz you can dance close. So although you shake it as you walk and kick your steps when you turn to face him, you move into Sam’s space, put his hands on the back of your hips, place your hands high on his arms and rein it in for something intimate and easy.

You look up and smile at him, happy, friendly, and full of respectfully contained lust. You move your hands to his hips, encouraging him to drop his weight a little and bend his knees so he can move with you, hips aligned, and you lead him.

He tightens his hands on your bones and moves close enough that your feet line up between each other. You can feel him listen to your body, soon finding the part of the beat you’re using, and he starts to really move with you. You slide your hands up to his waist and ribs, feeling his muscles work, and let your thighs and hips synchronise with his.

Sam leans down a little, getting his temple by yours while you begin to turn as you dance. His hand slides around your waist, up in the space between you to cup your breast, but you lead his wrist away, onto your back, smiling as he grins a gorgeous, mischievous grin and kisses the rise of your cheek. His hand squeezes you again and this time, as your bodies edge around the floor, he moves his hand much more slowly, trying to get a hold on your ribs, right under your bust. You break away, poking him in the chest “We are dancing, Sam.”

“Okay,” he surrenders, hands up, “we’re just dancing.”

“No handsies!” you yell over the music. “Bad Sam!”

He’s all dimples and heat, half surprised, completely entertained.

“This,” you indicate a circle in front of him, “this is your dance space, and this is mine,” you instruct, and grab his arms to make a standard partnered frame – right arm in an arc to the front, the other to the side, palm high and facing you. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he nods, dutifully taking being told off and holding the pose for you.

[The music changes](https://youtu.be/TJAfLE39ZZ8) just as you step into his frame like you would for a formal dance, but rather than holding your hand he softly leads it upwards and behind him, drawing a big circle around his head, dropping your hand over his shoulder and cupping your head at the end. He buries his face in your neck and slides his other arm around your waist. Before you know it, his thigh is back between yours, just as before, your bodies tight against each other as his swaying hips pull you side to side. The music is perfect – the DJ is surely watching you two – and all you can see is his collar, shoulder, ear and your fingertips in his hair while you tilt with him.

Whatever fragrance he’s wearing slowly seeps into your mind, settling in to trigger this moment for hundreds of yearning flashbacks. You rock with his warmth, and feel his form. You’re not sure if you’ll ever stop swooning over his arms but when one is holding you against him while he _dances with you_ … his thighs bracketing your leg like this, his breadth in your embrace, and the deliciousness of feeling him move with you, around you, it’s like all the parts of your tongue are relearning a flavour.

You slide your cheek against his smooth jaw line, hold onto the bulk of his shoulder and look into the shadowy darkness between you. His fabric drapes over his form, yours clings to your curves, and hips tilt and undulate as the two of you moving together… he moves to rest his lips on your cheek. You lean onto his thigh a little more and his breath ghosts over your ear. He slides his hand over to the middle of your pelvis, encouraging the gesture again, and you oblige as he kisses under your ear. The shape of his leg is that perfect – the rise of it under your groin as you hinge against him – you wonder why thighs aren’t listed as a sexual organ. Sam’s especially.

He begins to work himself against you too, or work his thigh to help. Regardless, you notice his breathing change, his fingertips dig in, and he nudges you with his head.

It occurs to you that, for someone who’s maybe not used to dancing with someone, this may get out of hand rather quickly.

Against your own desires, you turn your back to him and press yourself against his torso. Quickly, Sam wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you tight again, but his other hand tucks your hip against his and you can feel a hardness in his jeans, something that may make dancing more and more difficult. His nose nuzzles behind your ear and while you pick up the rhythm again you hear him moan shortly and start nibbling, kissing at your hairline. Your fingers press over his but you’re not yet sure if you want to encourage him or not-

“Let’s leave,” he suggests, still swaying with you.

You lean your head back so you can speak into his ear without yelling, “This is nice, let’s stay a bit longer.”

His longer fingers ghost up your throat and hold your jaw there so he can duck down and kiss in the soft corner, your hip being pulled to him so firmly that you can feel his denim move. You’ve never felt hotter.

“We can dance in your room,” he replies. One of his fingers pushes along the crease of your jeans, tracing a firm line along the creases under your pocket and his lips are slipping over the length of your neck. Foolishly, you actually listen to the buzz of your in your pants, everything lighting up with memories, and open your eyes to the roof. You’re surrounded by people… “Think we’d make it back to your room?”

He reaches between your legs and wraps his hand high around the inside of your thigh, pushes you up against him and then pulls, dragging his large hold around to the front. Turns out he can make you snap too.

You grab his wrists and turn towards the bathrooms. It’s a slim shot but it’s better than outside…

Leaving Sam alone for a second, you push past the door saying _Us,_ deeply relieved that the last woman is passing you on her way out. You check the 'Out of Order’ cubicle you noticed earlier, second last from the wall. The bowl is flooded and the whole thing is clearly not working: Nobody’s going to use that unless they’re already going to make a mess. You apologise to the memory of every respectable adult who ever praised you and take the 'Out of Order’ sign off the door, sticking it to the last cubicle. You run out, grab Sam’s wrist and drag him into the restroom.

As soon as the cubicle door is locked – like _that_ soundproofs your space – you say “Thought you might get a condom on while you waited,” and pull him close to you by his shirt.

He reaches into his back pocket and starts kissing about your face, your hands slipping all over him now. “Crossed my mind,” he mumbles.

Two women come in, their chat just white noise to what’s happening in front of you. You look up at him as he gets his jeans undone, holding the buckle quiet, thinking how the top of his head could probably be seen if someone cared to look.

Behind a coy smile, Sam rips the packet open with his teeth, slides the protection on, and grabs your head to kiss you. It’s overwhelming, with his hands covering so much of you, and it takes you a few moments to get going again and undo your pants. You turn around for him, bracing yourself against the tiles, and he drags the fabric over your ass, down to the middle of your thighs.

Sam squats behind you and pulls your hips back to meet his face so he can lick and suck at your core. The unexpected yank has you looking at the floor, and trying your hardest to breathe silently. It’s excellent, the lapping noise something only you can hear, ramping up your horniness ten-fold and your clit is pretty much screaming at being left out.

Then he’s gone and it’s cold momentarily before he’s leaning his heat over you and gently finding and guiding, pushing and easing, holding and hugging you as he moves into you and far as he can. He pauses there, both of you breathing and swallowing, his hands tight on your hips and yours in front of your shoulders. He unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall outside your hips. You figure it’s to get fabric out of the way, but now you can feel his lower belly over your ass and back and he’s hot enough to make you want to take your top off.

With the rest of him paused, he brushes aside your hair and tucks his chin into the corner of your neck, his hot cheek against your muscle, like a little sideways hug, and you tilt for it.

He takes your wrists and gently moves them upwards and outwards, adjusting them on the tiles. Somehow, the idea that he knows the best place for your hands to be right now has you near evaporating, but before you can really think about it he’s pulled out and pushed in and you both need a moment again.

Women come and go, chatting and laughing, complimenting each other and checking their make up. Sam builds to an urgent and steady thrust and you hold yourself strong and still.

Like before, he tilts your jaw back so he can kiss around your neck, then reaches down to your folds, finding your aching clit and flicking it lightly. He brings himself close and starts rocking into you, rather than thrusting, and your breathing starts to grow harsh. Despite his best efforts, the unmistakable smack of soft dry skin can be heard between you and you’re beginning to wonder how this will end when you’re both trying so hard to be quiet.

For a moment, you see the stark ceiling and wonder what the view would be from up there, the two of you having each other like this, amongst oblivious strangers. A whispered “Fuck” falls from your lips and Sam’s fingers squeeze in response. You close your eyes and try to keep it together.

“I know,’ he whispers back. “Too hot.”

Then the room is empty, for who knows how long. Sam turns his head, apparently to check it’s true, kisses your neck hard and then lets loose on your ass. He pumps, smacking into you, and you bite down uselessly on your moan, all your arm muscles snapping strong to brace yourself as his finger works you frantically. You don’t so much fall off the edge as get flung, all of you trembling, and you give in to a desperate, tight whimper and your knees give out. Sam’s got both hands on your hips to hold you close as he pulses, his mouth over the meat of your neck to muffle himself. When he’s stopped enough to move, he wraps an arm around your waist, almost lifting you off the ground as he straightens his legs and leans an elbow against the tiles.

He pulls out, tying off the condom and dropping it in the make-shift sanitary bin, but turns you to him for a hot hug, jeans still low as he runs his hands over you and kisses you. You just grab onto his ass, tight fucking mounds of muscles that they are, and get your fingers into the creases at the thigh.

“You’re being louder than we were before,” you say, commenting on his moans.

“Mmm, you still feel good,” he says, rubbing his groin against you.

The kissing slowly tones down, ebbing into pecks and smiles. By the time you’ve put yourselves away and straightened your clothes, you’re grinning like idiots.

You can’t believe the room has stayed empty for this long but as you head for the door, Dean’s head suddenly ducks in like a chicken.

“Dean, this is Us,” you remind him and point at yourself. “As in _Us.”_

“I have an Us,” he grins, the halter-neck girl appearing behind him.

“Right,” you say. Everyone tries not to smile. “The uh, the last cubicle is good.”

“Is it now?” he asks saucily.

“Yep,” you reply, stepping aside for them to come in, his date looking a shy but keen. “Got the tiles all warm for ya.”

“Oh _God,_ c'mon,” Sam says pushing you past them, even as Dean grins at you.

“And there’s an echo!” you advise.

“Thanks Y/N, you’re a champ!” Dean calls as the door swings closed.

Sam smothers his smile at you, letting you lead him back to the dance floor.

“C'mon,” you say into his ear, “let me show you Interpretive Dance. Got some sort of emotion I wanna recreate.” Sam lets you drag him back into the crowd for the second of many, many shortened dances.


End file.
